They Say That A Hero Can Save Us
by trisanamcgraw
Summary: (Set during "Jaynestown") Jayne does some uncharacteristic deep thinking (written in first person POV) about being the Hero of Canton — or a hero at all.


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Author's Note: Huzzah! **giggles** Here's my first fic in the Firefly fandom, and hopefully not my last. This here short fic tells what I think Jayne may have been thinking (first person POV) during "Jaynestown." Now, this is my first try with Jayne's persona, so hopefully I didn't make him too deep. :D Also, I'm assuming that he slept with the Mudder girl he appeared with the morning after they all got drunk. Let me say that I am terribly jealous of that girl who got to be with Jayne. **has dreamy thoughts about Jayne/Adam Baldwin** Oh, and one more thing: the song included in the beginning and end is "Hero" performed by Chad Kroeger and Josey Scott, and I borrowed a song lyric for the title as well. (I shamelessly steal song lyrics to make for my clever titles because of lack of creativity on my part; oh well.)

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They Say That A Hero Can Save Us

By Trisana McGraw

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I'm so high, I can hear heaven

I'm so high, I can hear heaven

Oh, but heaven, no heaven, don't hear me

I take another sip of whiskey, enjoying the warmth it sends into my belly, then pause and look again at the label. Those stupid Mudders gave me the best drink I've tasted in months – it's sweet of `em to go to all that trouble for me.

They been givin' me all the best stuff in the bar, `specially drinks. They say it's gotta be "fit for a hero."

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A hero.

Hah.

Jackass, I'm used to bein' called. An ape, too, though I won't let that pansy doctor get away with it. Those make more sense than _hero_. It sounds all righteous, and if there's one thing I know for sure it's that I sure as hell ain't righteous.

Me, a hero! It's hilarious, really. Ha, ha, ha! Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh . . . Well, maybe not that hilarious. I'm not a hero, though, not in the tiniest bit. I steal, I smuggle, I kill, all for money. It's my job and I like it.

Mal's the sort of hero the Mudders want. He's the kind of guy you could put up on a pedestal. Hah, seems like they already did that for me, though. Heh, heh, heh – this whiskey's good. . . .

Besides booze, they gave me girls, like the one curled up against me now. She's pretty ordinary, nothin' special. It's so dark I can't even see her face clearly. Makes it easier to leave in the mornin'.

Because I have to leave in the mornin' I know that. I have my own life to live, bein' the muscle of our ship, not some powerful god. As strange as it sounds, bein' a lyin', stealin' smuggler is more honest than bein' blindly worshipped by people who probably bathe less than I do – and that's sayin' somethin'. I bet if a gorram dung beetle dropped a load of money on `em they'd worship `im as much as they're worshippin' me, with festivals and riots and a statue and all.

I'm tired; lookin' outside I can see that it's getting' real dark, and it doesn't sound like anyone's really awake in the bar. I've got a bit of a headache, too; it's hard bein' the object of everyone's worship all day, you know. 

But why am I complainin'? I got some comforts from these folks; they want to treat their hero right. For one thing, the nameless girl here; heh – yeah, she wanted the hero to be happy, and he is. You know, it's hard to find a good lay what with all these planet-hoppin' jobs we're doing; and that's pretty ironic, seein' as we got a hooker on board. Now I've got me my own personal worshipper.

Speakin' of . . . she's awake now, and she starts kissin' my neck and strokin' my chest, a clear sign that she wants another go. Well, I'm not one to refuse a pretty lady, so I set aside my drink and accept another benefit of this "hero" business.

Afterward, we're panting, and she's looking up at me with reverence in her eyes. "Oh, Jayne . . ." she breathes, as if my name is somethin' holy. It makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable, so I take another sip of the whiskey as the woman snuggles up to me – I ain't much of a cuddlin' type, but I can manage – and closes her eyes.

She's just one of all the people who view me as their leader, as their messiah or some shit. Besides havin' that fearsome statue out in the center of town, I've got a song. Hell, I've got my own theme song! It ain't everyday a guy hears some folks singin' a ballad about him, but it sure is funny when he does.

And I've got whiskey – oh, good whiskey.

I struggle to remember the song. "Our love for him now ain't hard to explain." I hear the words come from my throat in a raspy whisper that floats on the balmy night breeze. "The Hero of Canton, the man they call Jayne." Sounds like I'm talkin' about somebody entirely different, someone I've never met.

But the Hero of Canton's right here, lying on a cot in a dingy bar in the middle of gorram nowhere, `cause that's his life.

I sing softly again: "Our love for him now ain't hard to explain. The Hero of Canton, the man they call . . . _me_." I can't help but grin. If these folks want me to be their god, I sure won't refuse the position. Besides, the song has a nice ring to it, I think.

Maybe they'll add another verse when we leave; somethin' about Mighty Jayne Cobb descendin' into the heavens, never to be seen or heard of again. `Cause we're definitely leavin' tomorrow, and then I'll forget about this miserable mudhole.

But till then, I might as well live in the moment; I got some okay sex and good, good drink . . . who else gets this kind of treatment regularly?

`Sides, it's nice to be appreciated once in a while – even if it is by a bunch of muddy idiots.

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And they're watching us

They're watching us 

As we all fly away

They're watching us

They're watching us 

As we all fly away


End file.
